Blues
by AbominableDante
Summary: In this world, my mentor gets to pick the first hit." Spike's sixteenth birthday.


**Author's Notes:** Many things at once. I shall list them:

I haven't posted anything in forever. I haven't written anything in forever. All of my backups are in editing.

Excuses are: School/ lack of sleep/ laziness/ girlfriend/ rum/ basic hygiene are eating my brain. In other words, life is forcing me to procrastinate.

I have a new beta since tearing apart the old one, an old friend from way back; Oni-Baka. I am disappointed with the fact that she's deleted all her old work, but at least she's resumed writing for her Psych fic. Let's hope she finishes it this year. Anyway, thanks for editing, now gimme the rest of those edits. You can do it in Art History class; not as if you listen to the teacher anyway.

My hermit crabs are still alive.

It's almost Halloween.

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**Disclaimer:** I do not own Cowboy Bebop or the characters mentioned (excepting the blues singer, who is totally and completely mine, and if you want to use him in anything, I would request that you ask first). I do not claim continuity, historical reliability or any chance that I can count to forty without having to pause. Grammatical errors are my own, I apologize ahead of time. Of course, if you want to rip Oni a new one for it, that'd be entertaining…

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**Warnings:** Violence, cursing, vomit, taxis, cigarettes (hell yes, I'm subliminally suggesting to your idiot offspring that they should smoke), city grit, noir influences, and unwashed hair.

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Please enjoy.

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**Blues**

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There was a blues singer across the street, skin as black as the alcove he was tucked into. A guitar was slung over his lap. His shirt was patched, jeans torn; the beaten hat he owned was out at his feet on the sidewalk, ready to receive whatever alms passers-by gave him.

"Wake up, Spike."

I looked away, and Vicious was holding his zippo out for me, the thin flame already wavering in the breeze. He was waiting for me to light the cigarette that dangled between my lips, looking bored as I leaned in and took my first puff of smoke. Once I was set, he lit his own, breathed deep and flicked his tongue over his lips. I went back to watching the blues singer as a dog walked by and sniffed at him.

"Sixteenth birthday and all I get is a pack of cigarettes and coffee," I muttered, coughing over the smoke. Vicious gave me a look that told me not to complain, that it was the best we could do. I glowered down into the ashtray and pretended not to notice. His hand appeared, fingers nimbly knocking the ash off the end of his smoke before placing it back on his tongue.

"I thought you were quitting, anyway. You keep talking about it."

"I am," he muttered. "Right after I get to watch you make yourself sick as a dog off those things. You don't get to stop until you vomit. Mao's rules."

"Bullshit."

He peered at me, one side of his mouth quirked in a knowing smile. Smiles like that have made my skin crawl since we were kids.

'We're still kids,' something in the back of my mind supplied.

"He just doesn't want you to end up as some addict like me. He doesn't like his boys wheezing in the field."

I'd never seen Vicious wheeze. He's never been sick a day in his life, the liar. I turned to look, but the dog was gone, the singer still there. I wished I had the money to pay for a song, but I hadn't been old enough to start working until today.

Another part of the twisted celebration; normal kids got cars, or bikes, or a party with their friends from classes and summer camp. I was old enough to drop out of school, finally start hauling my weight in the family. I shouldn't have been looking forward to this as much as I had. I shouldn't have liked the headache growing behind my eyes. I could feel another cough rising in my chest.

"You take pleasure in the most fucked up things," I sighed, sipped my black coffee. It was drip, the bitterest and most disgusting crap I'd ever tried. I wanted another cup.

Vicious just smiled, extended his pointer finger to the blues singer, lifting his thumb and pretending to take the shot. It was part of the initiation, part of the next step. At sixteen, I was an adult in this dark world we exist in, parallel to everyone else. In this world, I could do anything I wanted to myself.

In this world, my mentor gets to pick the first hit. He sent me a nasty grin and took a swig of his coffee, crushed out his cigarette and reached into his pocket to pay the till. I lit a second smoke and peered across the street, wishing inwardly that Vicious had picked someone else, someone other than that harmless old blues singer.

But Vicious had picked, and Vicious was not the type to ever change his mind. I got to my feet, dropped the pack of cigarettes into my coat pocket and followed him out of the dusty café. My other pocket was weighed down with cool steel that bounced against my leg with every step I take.

At sixteen, I was old enough to own and use a weapon. Vicious chose his sword a year ago; I chose my handgun yesterday.

"Either the nicotine or the blood's gonna do it, but I will, without fail, be holding your head out of the toilet tonight. I might as well enjoy things until then, don't you think?" Redundant question, he has always enjoyed the power trip. He liked to be his own god.

He stopped me before we cross the street, crushing fingers catching my elbow. He was forced to bend down a little to talk to me and when he did, his hair fell into his face. His hair reeked.

"Temple's the best place. It's softer there, so there's less bone resistance. It'll only take one shot. Be careful not to get too much shit on you, it's hell to get out of clothes."

At sixteen, my entire wardrobe goes from a medley of faded, thrift shop colors to black, navy and brown. Those dull suits showed less gore.

"I _know_ that." I pulled away and started to cross the street. He followed a step behind me, like a shadow. He left his sword at home, but I know he's bristling with other blades, ready to jump in and finish what he feels I might be too scared to do myself. It was not a great vote of confidence, and a lump formed in my throat.

"Excuse me," I began, my voice tight around the nervous constricting of my windpipe. The guitar man looked up over the edge of his cracked sunglasses. The whites of his eyes were yellow and lined with veins. He looked like he'd been starving for weeks, as hungry as the dog that had walked by not five minutes before.

I could feel Vicious hovering. I already knew he thought I wasn't doing this right.

"If you'd step into the alley there, please…" Way too polite. The figure behind me was radiating disapproval, and the singer wasn't budging. I sighed, spat out the cigarette and grabbed the man by the collar of his shirt, lifting him to his feet and hauling him into the alley.

This was better. He fought a little, but I was well-fed and much stronger. It was easy to send him wheeling into the mud, onto his knees. It was easy to press my piece against his forehead, then his temple and click off the safety. I remembered not to look into his face. I remembered not to wonder what was going to happen to his things, if there was a family to miss him. I remembered to realize that he's already a corpse.

I forgot to pull the trigger slowly; my finger jerked and fucked up the shot. Blood and brains and skull fragments splattered everywhere, and I could taste something bitter and metallic in my mouth. I spat, gagged, and backed away. It was hard not to heave, not when there was half a head on a man who was alive a second before, not when I was drenched in blood that was likely drowning with disease. Not when I was dumb enough to leave my mouth open and there were skull fragments in my teeth.

It was different from when Vicious came home from a job. There was the smell, the warm wet cooling on my face, staining my hands until it wouldn't wipe off. I could feel the panic rising with the bile in the back of my throat, and could barely turn away to heave the coffee and sandwich I'd just eaten into the gutter. Probably why Vicious took me someplace cheap, he already knew this was going to happen.

Someone unclenched my fingers from the gun, put the safety back on and slipped it back into my coat pocket. Someone wiped my face with a handkerchief, cupped hands under my arms and lifted me to my feet. Someone stuck a cigarette between my teeth and lit it. I was so light-headed I could barely see in color, the world was strangely silent.

Vicious managed to shove me into the taxi before I passed out.

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When I jerked awake in my own bed, my head was swimming. Vicious took the sharp-smelling bottle of ammonia out from under my nose and capped it. I could hear the tap as it was set on my nightstand, and I tried to judge how much time had passed since I'd been out. The light on the ceiling gave me no clue.

"Not long," he muttered, setting a hand on my shoulder. The touch was strangely gentle. "Sit up, if you can."

I let him help me up and leaned back against the wall. Everything between my ears felt like it was turned to liquid and was sloshing around every time I turned my head. The sensation was dizzying. Something light and bitter was slipped between my lips. I realized it was a cigarette when Vicious offered me a flame.

"You're terrible," I muttered, reaching up to crush the cancerous stick out. He stopped my hand midway and smiled. His grip was tight on my wrist, as if he might've twists and broken the bones. It made me flinch. I pretended it didn't matter, reached up with my free hand to take the cigarette out of my mouth and blew smoke in his face. He didn't even blink.

He had always enjoyed the suffering of others, always enjoyed trying to tear me apart.

"Congratulations," he whispered, "You're a murderer."

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_Fin Blues_

_Please Review_


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